"Never been one for dancing"
would be carved into my headstone
if it weren't for the fact that
my grave was robbed of it's
distant dreary locality by the
winding rattlesnake of a path
that I now stumble down.

It isn't me who whistles
that tune you can't quite taste the name of,
even as it dances on the tip of your tongue.

I promise.

I promise this is homage paid to
whichever lofty lord or lady
decides to descend from
their alabaster irrelevance
and keeps the change in wind
direction to their ******* self.

It's not oxen driven off a cliff
or anything, but in this economy
it will have to do.

You mumble your myriad mantras.

The hissing mysticism crescendos.

The whistler switches the octave.

Me; dizzy again, ******* off the tip
of a cryptic world with a pristine grin
as the dense twisting mists of mystery
beginning to drift betwixt the...

The whistling fades.

Tricks of the wind.

Never.